


Someone I Am Made For

by Minxchester (ComeAlongPond14)



Series: Look What You Made Me Do [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Worship, Canon Div, Coming Untouched, Dark Aaron Hotchner, First Time, Foyet x Reid was Non Sexual, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Orgasm, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Psychological Torture, Rutting, Scar Worship, Scarification, Slash, Tattoos, Tattoos to cover scars, Violent Sex, Wound Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/Minxchester
Summary: Canon divergent--when George Foyet murdered Haley Hotchner, Spencer Reid interrupted him. He takes the young BAU agent hostage...and uses him to send a message to his number one fan, Aaron Hotchner.





	Someone I Am Made For

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1/12: A reader pointed out that with the Foyet x Reid tag and with certain passages, there was an implication of sexual assault or rape between the two. I've edited the tags to indicate non-sexual, and want to assure anyone who may find the idea triggering that there was no intention of sexual contact between Spencer and Foyet. Foyet saw him only as a toy; he did not anticipate Aaron seeing Spencer sexually. Hope that helps!

“ _Promise_ me.”

“...I promise.”

The gunshot shattered the stillness of the Hotchner household, making the glass on the kitchen door rattle, and Reid could not have stopped the cry of shock that tore from his lips if it would have saved his life.

Thinking back on that moment later, and on the cold, merciless gleam in Foyet’s eyes when he glanced back, and saw the agent standing there at the doorway with stricken eyes locked on Haley’s fallen body, Reid sometimes wondered if anything in the universe could have changed his fate from that moment forward.

And sometimes, he wondered if he really would have wanted anything to save him.

* * *

The first time Spencer began to suspect a connection between what had happened during the three weeks that Foyet held him hostage, and the much closer attention Hotch had started paying to him once he was released from the hospital, was also the first time that the older man kissed him.

They were in his office, signing the paperwork allowing Spencer to resume working--to resume being armed--after passing his field retest. He signed and dated the document, then straightened up--and winced, his right hand moving to touch his side, before lifting to rub the bandage still bound around his left hand. It was reflexive, almost, self-soothing; a way to avoid constantly touching the phantom aches in the more serious wounds.

“Are you in pain?” Aaron’s voice was soft, much softer than it usually sounded during work, even when he had called Spencer to his office moments before to sign the papers. “You could take your medication.”

“I did,” Spencer said, forcing a quick smile. “I’m being careful with it, considering...”

“The dilaudid,” Aaron finished for him, nodding slowly. “Reasonable.” He stood up, adjusting his suit jacket as he moved around the desk and then crossed the office to close the door. “Was the doctor aware of your concern for that when he prescribed what you’re taking now?”

Spencer nodded, eyes on the worn-thin carpet. “I told him about it. They needed to know my medical history, and I knew I wasn’t going to escape using something for pain...I knew that I had to be honest with them.”

Aaron reached out, two fingertips sliding between Spencer’s chin and tilting his face up, startling Spencer with the intimacy of the action. His hazel eyes widened fractionally, lips parting in a silent O of surprise as he met the older man’s gaze.

“Why did he send you back to me?” the older man asked in a low voice, and there was an underlying heat in his eyes and his tone that Spencer could not have defined. “Three weeks, he had you, doing...terrible things.” Aaron’s head cocked to one side, curiosity sparking dark and murky in the hazel depths as he regarded Spencer. Curiosity, fascination...hunger.

Spencer swallowed, his lips feeling dry. Aaron’s fingers moved down as his throat bobbed, grazing over his Adam’s apple, and then tracing the line of a faded scar beneath Spencer’s jawline. The touch echoed the stroke of the razor-sharp knife that had drawn a taunting line from his collarbone up to his earlobe, and Spencer exhaled.

“Why did he let you live, Spencer?”

Reid caved, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips, and Aaron’s gaze latched onto the spot where his lip had been split during the initial fight with Foyet in Hotch’s house. The stitches were gone, but the skin had healed paler than before, leaving a visible, jagged line through the pink flesh.

Aaron leaned forward, his hand moving until his fingers and thumb were gripping Spencer’s jaw more firmly. His mouth was hard and commanding when it touched Spencer’s--not brutal, not unkind, but assertive. Like he knew what Spencer needed without his knowing it himself. Spencer didn’t resist, didn’t make a sound--or he might have whimpered quietly, truthfully he didn’t know. He simply let himself be maneuvered, let Aaron’s lips guide his in a slow, sure dance, and welcomed the older agent’s tongue when it probed into his mouth, tasting past his teeth.

It was a long moment before the kiss broke, and even when it did, they remained centimeters apart, breathing each other’s air.

“What did he say to you?” Aaron whispered. “Did you tell you why he sent you home?”

And that was the moment when Spencer first wondered. Or perhaps he knew already--well, of course he knew already, how could he not? But he just didn’t want to admit it, even in the dark and primal corners of his own thoughts.

“He wanted me to tell you...that he knows. And that he’s pleased,” Spencer replied, just as quietly. “He wouldn’t explain what he meant.”

Aaron’s eyes darkened, nearly black in the low light of his office and at their proximity. “It’s alright, Spencer. I understand.” Aaron drew back, putting more inches between them, and Spencer felt immediately colder. He held still as Aaron’s gaze dropped, sliding over him, and then settled on the spot at his side that the younger man had touched earlier.

He reached out, seemingly unconsciously, and touched the thickly padded bandage through Spencer’s shirt. His fingers pressed forward, slowly and steadily, and Spencer didn’t resist until it was hard enough that he felt it through the sweet dullness of the pain meds. Spencer bit back a whine, his side spasming, and Aaron withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he replied quickly. “Just--don’t want to need any more pills yet.” Spencer hesitated, then swallowed again roughly, trying to shake the flutter of nervousness wriggling in his stomach. “Was that...did you--was that real? The kiss, I mean.”

Aaron’s eyes returned to his, and his lips quirked up in the delicate half-smirk that Spencer knew so well. The look that was both fond and authoritative, self-assured, dark and potent and laden with promise. “It was. I’ve never let my emotions show, given that we work so closely together, but...I’ve been gifted a second opportunity, here. Another chance to...give my feelings a closer examination."

That both made sense and didn’t, but still Spencer nodded. It affirmed the truth that was worming its way through his subconscious--and yet he felt no rising terror at the prospect of it.

“You wanted...me, but never said so...and now you can, because Foyet let me live?” Spencer asked it in part because he needed the clarification, and in part because he had yet to say the man’s name in Aaron’s presence.

And in answer, Aaron’s eyes seemed even to turn even blacker, that same hunger returning and amplifying. As if Foyet’s name was an incantation, unlocking a dark door inside of his mind. A door that led to someplace that Spencer had never seen or imagined, somewhere none of the team could have known existed inside of their strong, powerful leader.

“He gave you to me,” Aaron said in return, lethally soft now. “He had his fun, first, he did as he pleased with you...but then he sent you back. To give me his message, and...to represent his work.”

Spencer looked down at his words, down at himself--none of the wounds were visible, all covered by bandages or by his clothing, and yet in that moment it felt to Spencer as if every mark, scar, and tear in his flesh was laid bare and visible to the eyes of the man staring him down. “Am I just a twisted, fucked up art piece now, then?” he asked, arching one eyebrow as if the question was casual, and not utterly terrifying.

Aaron’s smile was sardonic. “Oh, you’ve always been an art piece, Spencer Reid. But now you are...his masterpiece. His only victim to be left alive. It’s a fascinating paradox.”

That didn’t entirely alleviate the fear that the kiss--and any emotions or desires behind it--was founded in something more clinical than genuine, but Spencer did not want to argue if he didn’t need to. “Are you going to explain to me what he meant?” he asked, his volume closer to a whisper than real speech. “What did he know? What pleased him?”

For a split second, it seemed as if Aaron’s eyes went distant, his mind drifting far, far away from his office in the BAU with Spencer. But he was back within a moment, blinking, and a look of resignation touched his features. “I don’t think I can, Spencer,” he answered quietly. “At least, not just yet. But perhaps down the line.”

Spencer inhaled slowly, choosing not to challenge that response. “And....was that kiss just...a one-time event?”

That did make Aaron grin, though the spark of feral light in his gaze lessened the warmth or humor of the expression drastically. “It can be, if you would prefer that. Or, you could come to my apartment this evening, and...we can discuss it further.”

Spencer nodded at once, shifting closer before catching himself. He swayed backward again, a blush darkening his cheeks. “I would prefer to, to talk about it,” he said. Spencer had no idea where the words were pouring from, considering the alarm bell tinkling in the back of his mind--he knew, he did, he already knew, and yet the knowledge was only drawing him in harder and faster and deeper. “Or, not to talk, but....I would like to come over.”

“Then we’ll continue this tonight,” Aaron said simply; and as if he had planned for it, there was a rap at the door to break the moment.

Spencer blinked, watching as the older man turned to open the door, greeting JJ with an effortless calm that prevented her from even blinking at Spencer’s presence behind the closed office door, before Aaron was buttoning his jacket to follow her. He cast a glance back at Spencer, his smile simultaneously professional, and promising. “Conference room in ten.”

* * *

Standing on Aaron’s doorstep, Spencer gave himself one more long moment to contemplate the sanity of what he was doing. He knew--but Aaron hadn’t said it yet, and therefore Spencer didn’t have to concede that he was doing this intentionally, despite knowing what he did.

He raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles touched the wood, the door swung open. Aaron stood there in his work slacks and plain white button down shirt, tie-less and with the first few buttons undone. The outfit was casual, at least far more so than he ever appeared at work--and yet the line of Aaron’s jaw and the creases around his eyes were harder than Spencer was used to seeing them. It wasn’t an unpleasant look--it closely mirrored the flickers that Spencer had glimpsed in his face during their earlier encounter.

“Come in, Spencer.” He sounded so soft, welcoming, and his tone warmed Spencer to his bones as he nodded wordlessly, following Aaron’s lead and moving into the apartment. The door closed behind him with a quiet click, closing off the cool beige of the hallway.

He removed his shoes and jacket without comment, lining the shoes up beside Aaron’s by the door, and surrendering his jacket willingly when the older man took it from him and hung it in the closet. Then Aaron’s hand was on his lower back, guiding him further in, and Spencer let himself be propelled into the living room area.

“Where’s Jack?” he asked before he lost the nerve to--it mattered, all things considered, and given the relative recency of the Hotcher family’s loss, it would make sense for the man to keep his son close by.

“He’s with Jessica,” was the swift reply, and Spencer nodded, recognizing that Haley’s sister would no doubt be as inclined as Aaron was to keep Haley’s son within reach. “He stayed there while I was making arrangements and he enjoyed it. So she’s been taking him whenever he feels like being there.”

Arrangements for the funeral. Spencer didn’t comment, and didn’t move to sit without invitation.

Aaron moved to stand behind him, and before Spencer could tense he felt the older man’s hand come to rest at his waist, over the same bandaged spot that he had caressed before. But this time there was no sense of taboo, no feeling of imminent interruption like there had been in Aaron’s office, with the rest of the BAU team mere feet away, and Spencer remained still, wondering if this time they would move farther.

“Is it hurting?” There it was again, that breathless hint of wonder, the curiosity that went beyond merely being his colleague or boss or even a friend. Aaron was not asking out of concern for Spencer, but rather out of some deep personal interest--investment in the wound itself.

“No,” he replied, because what he felt wasn’t pain. It wasn’t entirely comfort, either, but he didn’t want Aaron to stop. “Not hurting.” The air itself was still between them for a moment, and then Spencer shifted, moving incrementally closer, making Aaron’s fingers dig in a touch harder, and he heard the older man inhale sharply at the feeling; but he didn’t withdraw his hand.

“Open your shirt.” So quiet, so soft, as if he was afraid that Spencer would refuse. He didn’t; raising both hands, Spencer undid the four buttons of his vest, and then rapidly moved down the front of the shirt beneath it, until both hung open. He had foregone his undershirt today, and the cool air of the apartment drifted in over his bare skin, making goosebumps ripple around the various bandages and stitches still holding his flesh together.

He felt Aaron’s hands ghosting over him, and then both garments were sliding off and away, and Spencer allowed it. Within seconds he was left without coverage above the waist, only gauze and body tape and medical thread, and he heard the sharp inhalation that Aaron made when he turned back toward the younger man, and took in his full state.

Spencer turned around, feeling bold, and watched the way that Aaron watched him. “Did he mean that he knew you....you would like seeing me like this?” Spencer asked, and he was thrilled that his voice did not tremble as he got the words out. He didn’t think that was it--but he was also terrified that it was.

Aaron’s eyes rose again, meeting his, and he nearly smiled. His expression didn’t change, not even incrementally; but the shape of his eyes softened, the usual fondness edging into his gaze. “No,” he whispered back. “No, he wasn’t referring to how I would feel about the state that he left you in. That was an entirely separate gift, Spencer.”

 _Gift_.

Spencer looked down at himself, at his damage, his brow furrowing. “Did he know that you would like it, though?”

“I don’t know.” The words were honest, and he looked back up, raising his eyebrows at the transparency in Aaron’s face. The older man shrugged. “If he did, it was unrelated to the choice to return you to me. That was founded in the past. In what he had already done, before taking you.”

 _Before taking you_.

“Haley.” Spencer said it without thinking, without hesitating, and Aaron blinked. He met Spencer’s eyes, his own so dark that Spencer couldn’t discern pupil from iris. “He returned me after what he did to Haley.”

The puzzle pieces clicked, and Spencer couldn’t keep toeing around it or trying to sweep it out sight. “And that was the part that you liked.”

Those nearly-black eyes didn’t shift or waver. “Is that what he said to you?”

Spencer shook his head. “During those three weeks...when he’d hurt me, he didn’t speak other than telling me what he was doing to me in that moment. Things that I knew, but I was in too bad of pain to identify.” His voice turned bitter. “He was keeping me sane. He would hurt me and tell me how he was hurting me, so that I could focus more on what was happening in a medical sense, rather than being lost in the pain of it."

Aaron’s fingers pressed in harder, too hard, and Spencer gasped, dragged out of the memory by the surge of agony in his side. He hadn’t taken his pain meds for a few hours, and the nerve endings were not asleep. “A-Aaron.”

The older man’s eyes lightened, just barely. “Did he ever make you speak back to him, when he was hurting you?”

 _Oh_.

Spencer closed his eyes, because the lines were drawing together, connecting, and the picture that they painted was darker and crueler than anything that Foyet had done to him as he had lain bound to a surgical table in the man’s control.

“He made me chose someone from the BAU, and made me call out to them, begging them to save me,” he replied finally, re-opening his eyes and looking down. There was a smudge of semi-clear pink on the bandage beneath Aaron’s fingers, the pressure of his fingertips beginning to make the wound leak again. The cut on his side was one of the deeper ones. “I, I begged every day.”

“Who?” Aaron’s voice was so soft and kind, as if he was seeking to comfort Spencer--not to draw this out into the open, not to make him face it. To face _him_.

“I called for you every day for two and a half weeks,” Spencer admitted. “I told him you wouldn’t stop, and that you would save me, and I begged for you.” Aaron’s fingers were harder, too hard now, and Spencer felt his knees beginning to quiver with the need to buckle, to cave. “I said you would get me back, and he told me that he knew that.”

He lifted his face, finally meeting Aaron’s eyes again, and swallowed to make his voice clearer and stronger. “Then he stitched and bandaged me up, gave me morphine, and told me to say those exact words to you, when you came to me in the hospital. That he knows, and that he was pleased.”

Aaron moved too fast for Spencer to entirely register it, as focused as he had been on sounding steady through the rising pain in his side and through the blazing heat in Aaron’s eyes. He was suddenly pinned to the wall behind where he had been standing, Aaron’s body against his from chest to hips, and the collision of their mouths this time was violent and desperate, hungry, nothing gentle or patient in Aaron’s kiss as he bit and licked his way past Spencer’s lips, his arms snaking around the younger man and clutching him close.

“Aaron, _please_ \--”

“I know.” The older man cut him off, cut the words off before they could bubble up and break free, and the wild glow in his eyes was enough to make Spencer forgot how badly he wanted to ask. “I know, Spencer, I know.”

And then he dropped to his knees, right there on the dark, gleaming hardwood of his living room floor, and Spencer cried out as Aaron’s fingers clenched into his hips, thumb catching against the pronounced hard ridges of his hip bones. Aaron’s lips roamed around the perimeter of the bandage, not loosening or removing it, merely kissing the flesh that was stretched by the transparent lines of body tape holding it in place. Spencer felt the wet heat of his tongue brushing along it, and he whimpered, hands dropping to tangle in the short, dark strands of Aaron’s hair. “I can--remove it--”

“No,” Aaron whispered back, breathing the words into his skin. “Not yet. It isn’t healed enough, sweet.” He looked up, meeting Spencer’s eyes again, and the disparity in their positions made Spencer want to laugh. “Soon.”

That was as close to an admission as Spencer suspected they would get, just yet--tonight, at least--and it emboldened him as much as if Aaron had outright said the truth. He looked over himself quickly, trying to find a substitution--only to remember the perfect spot, still hidden and out of reach.

Spencer’s hands flew to his own belt, and he undid it with shaking fingers, ignoring the questioning sound that Aaron let out. Opening his pants, too, Spencer pushed them down, just enough to reveal the thin, nearly healed-over line that ran from beneath his left hip bone down, vanishing into his underwear and angling dangerously toward his groin.

Aaron looked up again, brow furrowed in question, and Spencer answered in a voice that was nearly all air. “He threatened to castrate me if I didn’t choose someone to beg for salvation from. He--that was when I broke. When I first called out your name.”

If he had thought that Aaron’s eyes were dark before that moment, then Spencer had never seen a man’s eyes become so black that even the white was shadowed by hunger and rage. Aaron lunged in, and Spencer gasped out a whine as the older man’s lips touched his skin again, tracing feather-soft kisses down the mark--down, farther than he had exposed, yanking his pants and underwear down until Aaron found the end of the line, just centimeters to the left of where his erection was still trapped by the soft cotton of his underwear.

“But he didn’t hurt you--didn’t do it,” Aaron whispered, either confirming or asking, Spencer wasn’t sure.

“No,” he acknowledged. “I shouted your name, and he stopped. He--” Spencer cut off, choked, as Aaron pressed his fingers into the line--nowhere was it deep enough to still be open, but he could feel the blood throbbing into the tissue as intensely as if Aaron was already touching his cock, just as hot and aching as the scar beside it--before he managed to continue speaking. “--he said he didn’t need to take...to take that from me.”

Aaron continued to stare at him a moment, and then dropped his eyes to where the base of Spencer’s cock was visible above his underwear. “Are you aroused because of me, or because of what I’m making you remember?” he asked quietly, and Spencer bit his bottom lip, feeling the now-familiar pang in the thinner flesh of the scar there.

“You,” he finally admitted, choked and tight. “You, and--and how you’re reacting right now. All of it. Please, Aaron, I don’t...I just....”

The older man chuckled then, the heated intensity of the seconds before breaking like ice on the surface of a lake, and before Spencer could relax he had tugged the waistband of the underwear down, full exposing the younger man’s hard-on. “Don’t worry, sweet, I have you.”

His lips closed around the head of Spencer’s cock, and he couldn’t have constructed a coherent reply to save his life. Spencer cried out, his head thunking back against the pale yellow wall and his fingers clenching reflexively back into Aaron’s hair as the man worked his way slowly up the length of the shaft, sucking and licking and swallowing until his lips were pressed right up to the fucking base, and Spencer could feel the fluttering clamp of his throat closer around the sensitive glans.

“Please!” he gasped out, legs shaking. “Fuck, please--Aaron--I don’t, don’t want--to come yet--”

The tight seal of Aaron’s throat broke, and then he slid off, wetly and noisily, and licked his now-glistening lips as he smirked up at the breathless younger man. “Whyever not?”

The question made Spencer blush red, but he was not about to deny the other man a single answer. Not anymore.

“Are you doing to fuck me?” he asked in return, because that was the best way to approach what he was thinking, and he needed to know. “I, it’s okay if, if not, I just--I need to know, I...”

Aaron slid back to his feet, swift and sensual and so abrupt that Spencer was silenced by the fluidity with which the older man went from kneeling before him to looming over him once more, one hand pressed to the wall beside his face and the other returning to grip his right hip, just beneath the bandage.

“I will, when you’re ready for it,” he replied quietly. “That doesn't need to be tonight, Spencer. Whenever you’re prepared for it, then I will claim you completely.”

It was half an answer--a confirmation, a promise, but it didn’t explain everything. “When you--during--or now...” He was babbling, shit. Spencer paused, inhaling several times, quickly and silently, calming his thrumming heart down. He could not sound afraid, not for this question. It was too important. “Are you going to touch every...every spot that he hurt me?”

Aaron cocked his head, seemingly searching Spencer’s face for something, and licked his lips--fuck, they were still shiny with spit, gleaming from his earlier activity--before he answered. “I want to touch every inch of you, inside and out, Spencer. I want to touch where you hurt and where you don’t, and...I want you to ask me to do that. Just as he made you ask.”

Spencer blinked, his mind flooding with memories of his own voice cracking in the darkness around Aaron’s name, helpless and unable to save himself. “He made me me scream and beg for you to save me,” he corrected. “He didn’t--he didn’t know that this would happen.”

Again, that barely-there smile, the one that had always made Spencer’s gut flutter with anticipation for something that he had never realized that he wanted.

“Didn’t he?” Aaron asked quietly. “He sent you back for me, didn’t he? He gave you a message specifically for me. He knew.”

 _He knew_.

Spencer closed his eyes, letting that wash through him with all of its potential meanings and hidden nuances. _He knew. He knew, and he was pleased_.

Then he looked back up at Aaron, placing his hands flat against the man’s chest, and pushed.

It wasn’t a hard shove, and Aaron didn’t react poorly to it; he stepped back at the hard press, eyebrows rising up, and he watched as Spencer moved in sync with him, following closely. His hands remained on Aaron’s chest, deftly working down the front of his shirt to undo the buttons, until the garment hung open and exposed Aaron’s softly defined abdomen and pectoral muscles.

Then Spencer refocused on himself, and on sliding his slacks and underwear off completely. Once he was naked, he straightened back up, meeting Aaron’s eyes--God, he had never seen such hunger directed solely at himself, never seen anyone, male or female, look at his bare form as if they wanted to devour him alive.

He took another step back, then pivoted slowly on one foot, ignoring the vulnerabile prickle down his spine at turning his back to the only other person in the room. As he came back around to face Aaron once more, Spencer ignored his own awareness of the door behind him, too, because he knew Aaron had locked it the instant that they were both inside.

No one was coming to interrupt them here. No one but Aaron would see him like this, or see his scars and marks and damage.

Circling like this, Spencer revealed every single bandage, stitch, and piece of surgical tape that were working to hold him intact from Foyet’s handiwork. And as he had expected, Aaron’s gaze roamed over every single spot, absorbing his wounds and scars as if it was he who had an eidetic memory, rather than Spencer.

Aaron’s brow tightened as his eyes swept past Spencer’s still-hard cock, to the two parallel lines that ran up the lengths of his inner thighs, from knee to groin. “Why there?”

Spencer didn’t look. He didn’t need to. “He said he wanted me to know just how much my life was in his hands; that he could cut the femoral arteries if he wanted to, but he wasn’t going to. He let me bleed and then patched me back up, simply because he could.”

Aaron stepped closer, closing the space between them, and then he paused. “Come with me?” he asked, nearly a whisper, and Spencer nodded.

He followed the older man into the hallway, past Jack’s closed room and the bathroom and the closet before they entered Aaron’s own room. The older man turned on the bedside lamp, casting a soft, warm golden red light over them, and then nodded at the bed. “Lie down across the mattress, facing me.”

Spencer moved to obey without hesitation, because Aaron could have asked outright _do you trust me?_ with the same effect that he had invited Spencer to come in here with him. He stretched out sideways on the bed, naked and unafraid, and when Aaron moved to stand before him he let his legs fall open, exposing the near-femoral cuts once more.

Aaron leaned over him, palms curving over the shapes of both of Spencer’s knees, and then slid them upward along his thighs. The older man’s thumbs reached the healing cuts, and followed them, while his fingers felt the flexing and twitching of Spencer’s muscles as he reacted--not with fear or recoiling, but simply sensory feedback--to being touched so intimately.

“Where did he hurt you first?” The question was quiet enough that Spencer knew if he chose not to answer, Aaron would pretend that he hadn’t asked. But they had started down this path, now, and he wanted to know how far they might run it.

With barely a twitch, he dislodged Aaron’s hand from his left leg, and the older man didn’t stop him as Spencer rolled slowly, stopping once he was on his belly. He knew the instant that Aaron saw it, because he made a noise, confused and curious.

“Before he hit me with the butt of the gun,” Spencer said quietly, and that obviously connected the dots and gave Aaron the context--it had been while they were still in the Hotchner house, Haley’s still-warm body mere feet away, after Spencer had walked in on Foyet and Aaron had been on the phone, listening. “He had a stun gun.”

Aaron’s fingers grazed over the faded circles where the taser had burned Spencer’s skin, then downward, to where there were more, similar marks, in a neat row down one side of his back. “More than once?”

Spencer nodded. “He said that he liked how it made me dance.”

Aaron’s fingers dug in harder at that, and then withdrew. “So he didn’t immediately set in to start breaking skin.”

“No,” Spencer confirmed, whisper-soft. “No, he chained me from the ceiling, and kept me standing for the first forty-eight hours. He cut away my shirt and...started with that. He said it was better while I still had the strength to stay on my feet.”

Spencer paused, inhaling raggedly as he let the memories wash through his mind before brushing them back, and focusing on his awareness of the man behind him. “The first time he drew blood was the line under my jawline.”

He rolled back over without being told, meeting Aaron’s eyes and sitting up. Tilting his head up and back in blind trust, Spencer exposed the thin cut that Aaron had caressed while they had been standing in his office. It wasn’t as close to being deadly as those on his thighs, but it still showed the precision and cruelty of the man who had delivered it. “He asked how often in my work I had been afraid that I would die slowly and painfully, like so many of our vics did. Bleeding out and unable to speak.”

Aaron glanced up from the cut to his eyes, dark and unreadable. “What did you answer?”

Spencer dropped his gaze, his throat bobbing in a tight swallow. “When I tried to answer that was when the knife first broke skin. I stopped talking and...I cried.”

There was shame in his voice as he said the last word, and before the first tears had slid past his nose, Aaron’s strong fingers were once more around his jaw, forcing eye contact and lifting Spencer’s face so that they were more or less nose-to-nose.

“A stronger man than you would still cry when he believes he’s seconds from being murdered,” he whispered, hot and firm. “Even I might  have, Spencer. There is nothing wrong with tears.”

The words came out of nowhere, and Spencer didn’t even think them through before he replied. “He couldn’t have made you cry.” He’d started the line of thought, and now he had to say it all, to finish the statement. “He wouldn’t have wanted to.”

There was a long stillness between them, as if Aaron was weighing every possible meaning behind his words, but Spencer did not draw back, or move to wipe away the two tracks of tears that now gleamed on his face.

“No, I suppose not,” Aaron murmured back at last. Then he leaned forward, his tongue slipping out, and Spencer couldn’t even gasp before he felt the hot, damp slide of the muscle up each side of his cheeks, catching the salty saline drop of each tear.

His skin burned, both from a blush and the heat of Aaron’s tongue, but Spencer didn’t squirm or pull away. Their eyes locked. Without breaking that contact, Aaron dropped one hand, his fingers finding one of the various spots littered over Spencer’s arms where bruises were fading out of view, more healed than not, by now. Aaron’s hand curved around Spencer’s forearm, his fingers settling neatly into each point where Foyet had previously gripped him, leaving his mark in Spencer’s skin.

Drawing back enough to look down at his hand, Aaron examined the way he was holding the younger man, with his thumb at the inside of Spencer’s wrist and his fingers curling around the back of his forearm. “What was this?” he asked softly, pressing harder until Spencer’s own fingers twitched and jumped from the stimulation to his muscles.

Spencer moved, slowly enough that Aaron knew to follow, and not release him. Laying back down across the bed again, Spencer raised his arm toward his head, drawing Aaron along with him until his arm was resting flat on the mattress as well, hand beside his shoulder. Aaron leaned forward, applying more of his own weight, and when he was more or less on top of Spencer, pinning him by his arm, the younger man nodded.

“He held you down?” Aaron tilted his head, clearly confused. “He didn’t restrain you?”

“He did,” Spencer replied, quiet and a touch bemused. “Once he had me...wherever we were. That...that was when we were fighting. At...your house.”

Aaron inhaled sharply, and glanced across Spencer’s body at his other arm; Spencer lifted it immediately, revealing mirrored, faded fingertip-shaped bruises on that forearm, as well. Aaron shifted, settling more evenly above him in a straddle, and matched the touch.

He didn’t need to ask Spencer to continue. “He came at me before I realized what I was seeing,” Spencer whispered, and he didn’t need to say her name to clarify what he meant. “He tried to hit me with the gun, and I ducked just enough. Still made contact, though, so I was dazed, and he...he swept his leg and knocked me down. Jumped on me and held me down. He was trying to slam my head into the ground to knock me out."

Aaron released one of his wrists, his hand sliding up the silk comforter and his fingers curling into Spencer’s unruly hair, tucking underneath the back of his head. Spencer didn’t move, just stared back at him--though his eyelids fluttered slightly when Aaron’s hold tightened, forcing the younger man’s head harder into the bed, his throat bared in a graceful arch.

“Like this?” Aaron was so quiet, nearly inaudible, and Spencer shook his head.

“He was trying,” he repeated. “He couldn’t stop me moving my hands. I tried to punch him.” He didn’t miss the faint smirk that touched Aaron’s lips, and Spencer rolled his eyes. “I was dazed, but not that out of it yet. I can defend myself.”

“Oh, I know you can.” The older agent’s voice was firmer now, edged with laughter. “I’ve helped you train.”

He leaned down, and Spencer had only a second to gasp in a breath before Aaron kissed him again, harder and more intentionally now. He was suddenly acutely aware of his nudity--not embarrassed by it, but aware of every point where his bare skin rubbed against Aaron’s, or where the older man’s clothing was grazing him. Unthinkingly, Spencer arched upward, rocking his hips up and grinding his erection unsteadily against Aaron’s hips.

Teeth clamped around his bottom lip, biting almost harshly, and Spencer whimpered at the spark of sensation in the scar tissue there.

“You want more now?” Aaron’s voice was predatory and dark, intense, and Spencer shuddered, struggling to stop the restless movements of his lower body. Struggling to obey the unspoken command and control radiating from his supervisor. Aaron didn’t need to order his compliance to earn it, not anymore.

“Spencer.” He refocused, blinking, and raised his eyes to meet those of the man pinning him down. “If you want more, you have to ask me for it. If you’re unsure you’re ready for more, you tell me so, and...we will take things more slowly.”

 _We’ll take things slowly_.

The air hissed out of Spencer’s lungs, but rather than terror or reticence, he felt a surge of boldness that echoed how he had felt when he had resisted the dizziness and pain, and tried to slam his fist into Foyet’s face as the man wrestled him down into the soft linoleum of the Hotchner’s entryway.

“He said that too,” Spencer told him, barely above a whisper. “He dosed me with morphine and then started on my stomach, and he told me we would take it slowly so that I didn’t pass out from pain, or need too much medication to feel it.”

Aaron tilted his head, his eyes searching. Then he raised himself up on one arm, no longer pinning Spencer’s arms--their only contact now was where his hips pressed down on Spencer’s, thighs straddling the younger man--and looked down the length of Spencer’s torso. Some of the cuts were less severe, and held by stitches or medical tape, and some were worse, stitched and then bound in layers of gauze and padding to protect them as they healed. There was no rhyme or reason, no words or designs that Foyet had specifically chosen; the cuts had been intended to leave long-lasting wounds, and to drag out the agony in the moment.

There _were_ marks that left a message, but they weren’t on his stomach. Aaron hadn’t yet asked about the bandage on his left shoulder blade, and Spencer wasn’t ready to draw their focus to it.

Watching the heat and the awe in Aaron’s eyes as he examined the abstract design on his belly, Spencer finally found the words, and he spoke them without fear.

“He knew that you like his work.”

Aaron went still, and the air between them thickened and darkened almost visibly, as if Foyet’s sick presence was somehow in the room with them now. The older agent’s eyes rose back to Spencer’s face without his head lifting, and from beneath his furrowed eyebrows, they were black and expressionless, just like Foyet’s had been as he carved Spencer up in another dark room, far away from here.

“He knew that you admired his ruthlessness. That’s what pleased him.” Spencer’s voice didn’t shake, and he didn’t flinch when Aaron moved, leaning down over him. The older man’s spine was bowing elegantly, and when his lips brushed Spencer’s abdomen just above where the cuts criss-crossed over his stomach, Spencer didn’t push him away. He let his head fall back at the first tickle of Aaron’s breath on his skin, and closed his eyes, feeling rather than seeing as Aaron kissed the wounds.

“Did you know he was coming that day?” he asked, because Aaron’s silence, and continued attentions, were the man’s way of affirming his accusations, and he was inviting Spencer to keep going. “Did you know that Haley was going to die?”

The directness of the question did make Aaron pause--but then his tongue dipped into Spencer’s navel, and trailed sideways over the line of a nearly-healed line of stitches. Spencer gasped at the delicacy of the touch, his shoulders lifting off of the mattress; but Aaron reacted neatly, reaching up and pressing him gently back down.

“I knew.” The words were a ghost of sound, more tangible against his stomach than to his ears, but Spencer heard them as loudly and jarringly as he had heard the gunshot when he walked through the door that day. “I knew, and I didn’t stop him.”

Spencer’s eyes sank closed, and for the first time, it occurred to him that there was a small chance he might die here, in this apartment, as a romantic conclusion to Foyet’s work.

“Did you want it? Or just not intervene?”

The softest of chuckled brushed low on his belly, near enough that Spencer felt it against the head of his still-very-hard cock, and he bit his lip to keep from whining. “I was...ambivalent,” was Aaron’s murmured response. “But I didn’t anticipate _you_.”

That was that real crisis. Spencer inhaled a shuddering breath, his eyes reopening, finding the softly twirling ceiling fan to be blurred by tears. “Is this...only about him, then?”

Aaron bit down, his teeth sinking into the barely-there ridge of flesh where the longest, deepest cut had occurred, the stitches merely days from being ready for removal. The abrupt heat and pain made Spencer cry out, bucking up slightly, but Aaron’s weight kept him pressed into the sheets--and his mouth silenced Spencer’s noise, swallowing the shock of sound as he kissed him bitingly, cruelly, as if trying to tear those very fears out of his mind and through his lips.

“No,” Aaron growled, and it was somehow the most animalistic that he had sounded thus far. “I said I didn’t anticipate you. I believed that I would get there, and that he and I would finish our dance at last. But you happened--my beautiful, incomprehensible genius, you got in his way and you changed the game.” Aaron’s lips twisted into a dark smile, his eyes glittering. “And then he decorated you like the eighth wonder of the world, and sent you back to me.”

Spencer knew that he was crying, that tears were sliding silently down his cheeks, but he did not pull away or attempt to wipe them. Every word and breath was punctuated by more biting kisses, and the wound on his lip gave way, the scar tissue tearing and droplets of blood beading to the surface, only to be licked away by the searing heat of Aaron’s tongue.

“He didn’t know,” he insisted, hoarse and barely able to get the words out as they kissed. Aaron’s hand dropped, finding his cock, and Spencer let out a helpless, keening cry as the older man stroked him roughly, using only his pre-come to lubricate the movements, and nothing had ever felt so fucking glorious. “He didn’t know that you would take me like this, I was just his messenger--”

“So?” Aaron cut off the heartbroken words, biting one last time and then drawing back, looking down just to watch himself jerking Spencer’s cock, hard and fast and merciless. “So what? You delivered your message, and now, you are _mine_.”

Spencer’s hands were scrambling over Aaron’s chest and arms, struggling to find purchase, and he managed to choke out half of a warning before Aaron’s other hand found his throat, pressing him back into the bed one more time and pinning him with that one wide, beautiful hand spread out over his collar bone.

“Do it,” Aaron snarled. “Come for me, Spencer, come _now_.”

He could not have disobeyed even if he had wanted to. And nothing in the universe could have made him want to.

Aaron stroked him through his climax, fingers tight and efficient around his cock as Spencer shook and sobbed through the waves of pleasure. The stroking didn’t stop even as the orgasm receded, and Spencer whimpered as he began to feel too sensitive, pushing helplessly, weakly, at the older man’s hand. “P-please, it’s--t-too much...”

That stopped Aaron’s hand, but he did not remain still; leaning over Spencer again, his hands found the younger man’s wrists once more, and Spencer moaned brokenly at the slick slide of his own come on Aaron’s fingers, smearing and squelching between their skin. The sound was lost immediately as Aaron kissed it right out of his mouth, his teeth catching at Spencer’s tongue before releasing it again.

“You--” Spencer’s voice was wrecked, his eyes glazed over. “You need--to come--”

Aaron chuckled quietly, his lips roaming down to Spencer’s throat and sucking at the tender skin there, leaving little marks that would fade before Spencer registered them. “I can take care of that.”

“No,” Spencer whined, tugging at his arms to try and draw him in closer. “Please--I need to--to help--need you to take me--”

He was still flat on his back, but suddenly Aaron was properly on top of him, his weight bearing down hard enough that Spencer felt the air get knocked out of his lungs. The older man’s eyes were blazing, dark as night as he stared down at him, and once more Spencer became acutely aware that there was nothing but sweat, gauze, and semen between his bare skin and Aaron’s.

“You’re not thinking clearly enough to decide that,” Aaron whispered, one hand grasping one of Spencer’s wrists, and the other--the one still sticky with Spencer’s own release--rising to stroke his cheek gently, smearing some of the tacky white residue. The air stank of sweat and sex, and Spencer realized he was shivering. “If you still want that when you’ve recovered and taken more meds--”

Spencer grabbed at him, his free hand flying around Aaron’s shoulders and drawing him in closer until the younger man was able to kiss him, rough and uncoordinated and sloppy with spit.

“Please,” he ground out, the words smeared between their lips as he bit at Aaron’s mouth. “You said it isn’t only about him--if it’s more than just his work, what he did to me, then _please_. Make. Me. Yours.”

Aaron growled out a curse, the words incomprehensible as Spencer teased at the older agent’s tongue with his own, and Aaron sucked hungrily at the offered muscle, making Spencer whine at the sweet sting of his lover’s teeth clashing against his own.

“Spencer.” Aaron’s voice sounded like tires on gravel, like the burning pulse of a handgun firing against his palm, and the younger man felt his insides liquify as anticipation and expectation crashed and rolled in his gut. He heard the surrender in that one word, that choked utterance of his name, and he knew that he was going to get his way. “Roll over.”

He nearly didn’t hear that command, lost in the heat of Aaron’s voice and the barely-contained force in his hands as he lowered them to Spencer’s hips, nudging him into motion. The gentle pushing connected the dots, and Spencer whimpered, struggling to comply and work his way onto his belly.

The moment he was lying flat again, Aaron went still once more, and Spencer knew without needing to see his face where the older man’s eyes had gone. He closed his eyes, inhaling to brace himself, and did not flinch when Aaron touched the gauze square taped high on his left shoulder.

“His signature,” Spencer whispered, and he bit down on his swollen still sluggishly-bleeding bottom lip as Aaron pressed down harder, making the three still-open lines beneath the bandage twinge as the pain medication finally began to completely wear off. “Signing off his masterpiece before sending it to its new owner.”

The noise that left Aaron’s mouth when Spencer uttered the word _owner_ was inhuman, dark and possessive in a way that couldn’t be defined, and he ripped the gauze away, exposed the neatly cut blocked _F_ that was carved into Spencer’s flesh.

Then Aaron was yanking him upward, bringing Spencer up onto his knees with one arm winding tightly around his chest, and the other tugging his chin to make him look back at his lover as Aaron kissed him, the angle awkward but the dominance in the gesture inescapable.

“You were mine all along,” Aaron hissed, and Spencer drank the words in like they were oxygen, swallowing the darkness and ugliness along with the beauty of his claiming. “You were mine long before he came into our world, and you were mine with every line he cut into you, and every ounce of pain he delivered. You were mine the minute I laid eyes on you, and not a single one of these scars contradicts that.”

Spencer reached back blindly, trusting his weight in Aaron’s hold, and his fingers scrambled to undo the older man’s belt and work slacks. His skin was hot and damp and tacky from head to feet from sweat, tears, and come, and Spencer knew that they would not need much to finish this.

“Not even this,” Aaron repeated, breathier as Spencer got one hand inside his underwear and wrapped it around his cock, stroking jerkily. Aaron’s fingers pressed into the exposed _F_ , making him buck and cry out his lover’s name at the surge of pain, but Spencer did not push away, and Aaron did not lessen his touch. “He never owned you, Spencer. He is a dark god, a demon, but he could never possess you, or destroy you. So he sent you back to me.”

“Because I’m yours.” Spencer’s voice was fracturing, cracking, but his hands remained sure as he stroked Aaron’s cock. He rocked his hips backward, encouraging more, and Aaron grinned darkly as he tightened his hands on Spencer’s body, holding him still in order to rut forward against his bare ass.

“Yes,” he breathed into Spencer’s ear, feeling the slimmer man shudder and gasp for him. “Mine, and mine alone.” He reached down, gently pushing Spencer’s hands away from his cock, and the younger man barely moved fast enough to brace his palms against the mattress. Then Aaron was bearing them both forward, his broader body pinning Spencer to his bed as he began rocking his hips with more intention and force, mimicking a hard fuck as he thrust against the cleft of Spencer’s ass.

Spencer could hardly breathe, but he didn’t care in the slightest. His entire body was on fire, aware only of the heat and slide of Aaron’s body against his own, and the violent rush of his panting breath in Spencer’s ear as the older man rode his ass into the bed.

He felt Aaron’s weight adjusting, shifting, and then hot fingers were probing his shoulder blade again. Spencer whimpered, eyes fluttering closed and hands clenching in the sheets. It hurt, the skin throbbing and the muscles underneath aching as all medication wore off--but he would rather die right then than ask Aaron to stop.

“I’m going to make you fully mine,” Aaron whispered hotly, continuing the violent rutting against him, while his fingers stroked the jagged _F_ as delicately as if he was a surgeon at work. “When you’ve healed more, Spencer...I am going to fuck you until you’re screaming for me, just as he made you do.”

“Yes,” Spencer gasped out, the sound barely more than a whine. “Yes, I will, I will--”

“And then,” Aaron went on, rolling his hips down and forward harder, and Spencer groaned, pushing back as hard as he could in order to give the older agent more surface to rub against. “I’m going to make that signature mine, as well.”

Spencer’s toes were curling, trying for any purchase that he could get. “H-how?”

Dark amusement rippled through Aaron’s voice. “We’ll figure that out, sweet. I’ll find a way. He decorated you and sent you back to me as a gift, but I do not accept. You were already mine--his taking you away, and marking you, did nothing to change that.” Aaron leaned down, pressing his lips roughly against the three slice marks that formed Foyet’s initial. He began sucking loosely, and Spencer bucked at the pressure, tearing at the sheets, whimpering his lover’s name.

“Al-always--always yours,” he moaned, and Aaron was flung over the edge; he came with a low snarl, pulsing hot and wet over the swell of Spencer’s ass, and the beautifully arched dip of his spine.

Aaron’s hands found Spencer’s, tugging and pulling to roll him back over before the semen had time to even begin dripping down his sides. Spencer whimpered happily as he slumped into the still-warm mess of their mingled releases, letting Aaron pin his hands on either side of his head as he grinned breathlessly up at the older man.

“So that’s what gets you off,” he whispered. “Possession. Knowing that what you see as yours...is yours.”

Aaron snorted, keeping his fingers locked around Spencer’s wrists while he slid his way down, mouthing over Spencer’s taut belly and abdominal muscles. His tongue swirled through the mess of sweat and come, tracing the shape of his own name until it was written, glistening and translucent, on Spencer’s stomach. “You’ve belonged to me forever, Spencer Reid. You could recite the goddamn periodic table, and it would get me off.”

Spencer huffed out a laugh, then raised his head, watching Aaron as he continued tracing the letters with his tongue, making them as clear as he could with the material he had.

“I know how to make the signature yours,” Spencer whispered, and when Aaron looked back up at him, the younger man surged forward, breaking Aaron’s grip on his arms and crashing their mouths together once more, claiming him in return with the ferocity of his kiss.

* * *

“You got a lot of scars, man,” the tattoo artist remarked, raising his eyebrows as he looked over Spencer’s bare back.

Spencer shrugged, handing his shirt to Aaron, who took the seat next to the bench without a word. “That’s why we’re here. Can you do it? Will the scar tissue take the ink?”

“Yeah, I got you,” was the confident reply, and Spencer smiled, moving to lie on his belly and keeping his eyes locked on Aaron’s. His lover did not break his gaze, nodding slightly to indicate his support and agreement as the stranger leaned in, carefully placing the tip of the tattoo gun against the long-ago-healed _F,_ and beginning to work.

* * *

Three weeks later, he gently kissed the smooth black lines that formed a simple handgun interwoven into the blocky shape of the letter _A_ , then laughed as the brush of his lips pushed Spencer over the edge, sending him shuddering into his climax.

“There’s my good boy,” he breathed, sliding to wrap himself around Spencer in a snug embrace. “Only mine.”

Spencer grinned into his pillow, arching his back and rolling his shoulders just to feel the slow, sleepy stretch of the scar tissue underneath the tattoo. He glanced over his shoulder at Aaron, meeting the older man’s blazing black eyes with contentment and satisfaction. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N2: Originally I wrote that the scar was tattooed into a letter H, and then a reader mentioned that they had expected an A. I realized that it's WAY more logical to re-shape an F into an A, and changed that. Thank you, @SERunion7!


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